


Bewitched

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15420201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: Bridget Jones thought her life with Mark Darcy would be magical...she had no idea how right she was. A/U, but most of the references are film universe.





	Bewitched

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this story about two years ago and was dissatisfied with the way it turned out, so I've made some major revisions. In particular, thanks to S_Faith for the suggested revisions to the falling action/resolution. As usual, please feel free to point out any typos or formatting errors.

#### Thursday 3 June

Weight: too incalculable to contemplate due to enormous stone-like weight in stomach. 

Cigarettes: 13 (making good progress. Really going to commit to quitting before wedding, though admittedly would be much easier if actually set wedding date so could have clear, concrete goal in mind). 

Alcohol units: 0 (virtuous, saint-style person,, though now regret as cannot get to sleep). 

Calories: 3000 (almost entirely minipizzas). 

Fiancés: 1 (g, but future clouded in uncertainty). 

Secrets keeping from fiancé: 1 (bad, particularly as fiancé is barrister as now feel as if am perjuring self). 

Minutes spent obsessing over secret: 500 (slightly neurotic but understandable given what’s at stake, e.g. perjuring self, disappointing Mark, being chucked, dying alone, and being discovered three weeks later half-eaten by Alsatians). 

Attempts to confess secret to fiancé: 1 (brave but fruitless endeavor. Oh well. If at first you don’t succeed, wash away sorrow of failure with Bloody Mary, or something). 

8.00 PM

Shit! Fuck! Crisis! Suddenly feel as if entire world is about to spin off its axis and crash into the sun. V glad, in a way, that Mark not coming round till later as will have more time to sort out mess in head and be calm, poised, woman of substance when he arrives, ready to welcome him with warm embrace and sultry kisses in manner of sex goddess or similar. (Mmm, love Mark.) 

Still sometimes wake up in middle of night to look at him sleeping beside me and want to pinch self to make sure am not dreaming. After fears of bleak, singleton life stretching endlessly before self, am now newly-engaged to top human rights barrister who loves me just as I am (and who also looks v.g. naked). Right. Must stop daydreaming about gorgeous fiancé and be calm, poised, woman of the world, as if is perfectly natural, everyday occurrence to have very own Mr Darcy in my bed forever and ever, till death do us part, etc. Hmm, perhaps, though, does not seem v much like woman-of-world to be floating about flat murmuring “Mrs Darcy, how well it sounds” in manner of lovesick schoolgirl or Mrs Bennet from Pride and Prejudice. 

Right, Really must focus on crisis at hand or risk losing fiancé and dying alone in fifty-year-old wedding dress in manner of Miss Havisham or similar. Not that have actually purchased dress yet, obvs, as have been officially engaged for only a few weeks. Do not even have engagement ring yet, but not at all odd, really, as Mark obvs planning to take me out to pick out something lovely, and anyway is not as if ring makes engagement official, like receipt for proof of purchase or something. Am not a toy; am woman of substance who does not need tangible proof of fiancé’s love and commitment to self. Still, perhaps should check ring size again in case subject of ring-shopping is raised later. Perfectly logical, really, as lost considerable amount of weight in Thai prison and hands now v fragile in manner of Victorian lady or similar. 

8.07 PM

Wonder if should research ring settings. 

8.10 PM

Ooo, could really fancy Tiffany solitaire. V expensive though, and don’t want Mark thinking am mercenary trophy wife in manner of Caroline Bingley. 

8.12 PM

Still, Mark loves me, and cannot put a price tag on love. 

8.13 PM

Well, perhaps you can, at least according to Tiffany. Just rang Tom to ask advice about ring and he said style I had in mind costs—hmm, cannot remember now, but think number of 0s made self slightly dizzy. Right. Focus. 

8.15 PM

On other hand, what is point of setting sights on ring so expensive should probably be on display with Crowned Jewels when Mark will probably chuck me when has discovered dark secret about self that have been hiding in manner of skeleton. Maybe should just keep buried as have managed to conceal for this long, but after everything have been through with Mark (re: miscommunication about Rebecca, thoughts on marriage, Daniel Cleaver situation ETC.) think is v important to adopt practice of absolute honesty with future husband. (Mmm, love sound of it. Mrs Mark Darcy. Really hope he doesn’t chuck me.) 

8.17 PM

Telephone call; was Mark. Dull-as-ditchwater meeting with colleagues running v late owing to some crisis or other. On one hand, feel v proud of Mark as is top international crisis and conflict resolution expert and always being retained and consulted by busy and important heads of state, and love thinking that there are journalists and freedom-fighters and asylum-seekers who might be dead if not for Mark’s intervention. On other hand, sometimes wish he had more time for me, but he promises he’ll come round and stay the night anyway. Only thing is he told me not to wait up for him. Hmph. Haven’t even got married yet and already Mark behaving like asexual, middle-aged bore. V.G though as have more time to work out what to do. How do I tell my practical, logical, no-nonsense, underpants-folding, barrister fiancé that I’m a—I’m a—a—a witch? Obvs am terrible witch though, in part because never properly trained in art of witchcraft and in part because am complete trouble magnet whose only ability is to turn everything I do into monumental disaster. 

Still vividly recall sticky hot summer day when I was 11, receiving v odd letter in pretty, emerald green ink from someone called Professor Mcgonigal who made me picture severe-looking, Maggie Smith-type character. Letter explained I’d been accepted to a school called Hogwarts (v unappealing, really, to name a school after horrible-sounding swine skin complaint). Hogwarts, it turned out, was a school of witchcraft, and got v excited about learning to do magic and having a wand so could turn Mum into a cumquat if she annoyed me, except Mum absolutely forbid it. 

“Don’t be a silly billy, darling! You’ve got your future to think of! You know the boys will never find you attractive if you’re always wandering about waving a magic wand and muttering incantations like some medieval Mary Poppins person about to be burned at the stake. I won’t hear of such nonsense!” 

So we just hushed the whole thing up; truth be told, though, it never quite stopped me being a bit odd. Think now it might have been better to just let me go off to school with mad-sounding name that makes one think of pigs with acne. At least it might have offered some explanation for self being an absolute anomaly of human race. Funny, really, to think that Mark never worked it out on his own (though perhaps not, come to think of it, as Mark v practical and unimaginative). Absurd to expect hoity-toity barrister with giant gherkin shoved up his backside to believe in magic. 

Still, regret not telling him ages ago because now will look like have been harboring deep, dark secret about self (which is true, really). On other hand, must give self credit for managing to keep things quiet, like on night of birthday dinner/blue soup debacle. When Mark popped round unexpectedly and saw mess of blue soup, I gabbled frantically about it being the fault of having tied celery together with blue string, but really had just been terribly nervous and somehow managed, in state of culinary confusion, to turn everything blue. Could have told him then, but he was so lovely and polite about the whole thing, and he kept looking at me with kind, soulful brown eyes like Labrador puppy, and he said none of it mattered because everyone was coming round to see me anyway. Daniel Cleaver would never have been so kind, but would instead have laughed and said blue soup was self’s subconscious reaction to fear of eating and whale blubber splurging spontaneously out of self during meal in front of friends who would then know self was incurably fat slob, so made everything inedible. Mark, on other hand, is always perfect gentleman and always manages to make 30-second assessment of whatever predicament I happen to have got myself into at the moment and comes up with cool-headed, logical solution that restores order and calm to entire universe. (Mmm, really do love Mark. Wonder now why didn’t just shag him right there in kitchen, but would have been v difficult to explain as was only just beginning to contemplate possibility of him not being rude, arrogant humbug.) Then he graciously offered to be v helpful in kitchen, and Tom and Jude and Shaz came round and were v surprised, obvs, to see Mark there. Could have pulled him aside then and told him the truth, because he was being so wonderfully sweet and even teased me about dinner and said whole thing was the most incredible shit, not as if he wanted to hurt my feelings, but as if he really wanted me to feel better about it all and laugh at myself for trying so absurdly hard to impress my friends when they love me just as I am. Couldn’t help wondering though, at the time, if Mark only drew attention to disastrous cooking to deflect question from Sharon about why his wife left him; I mean, leave it to Shaz to go straight for the jugular. Poor Mark. Really, though, is v silly to worry that Mark will chuck me for telling him truth about self when he was first person ever to tell me that he likes me just as I am. (Though didn’t know at the time, obvs, that he liked a witch, so perhaps statement no longer applies?) 

Thing is, might have been able to keep entire thing secret if hadn’t been complete idiot last night. Mark came to pick me up after work and we had lovely dinner out followed predictably by shagging, at my flat, obvs, not on table in middle of Le Pont De La Tour, as Mark agrees the flat is much cozier than his large, wedding cake mansion where is impossible to tell the difference between refrigerator and door to washroom and can actually locate items in kitchen (e.g. wine glasses). Anyway, everything was going perfectly, with Mark rubbing my shoulders and murmuring ‘Mrs Darcy’ in my ear in v dirty way (is interesting really how one can make even the most boring thing sound dirty if whispered in husky voice like Colin Firth, who is not actually Mr Darcy. Doesn’t matter anyway now as have own real Mr Darcy. Tralalala). Imagine married life with Mark, lying in bed, and he’ll just roll over and whisper in my ear, ‘Oh, I’ve forgotten, we’ve got to remember to do the taxes, Mrs Darcy,’ and we’ll just start shagging in manner of bunnies. Could have been perfect night of passionate lovemaking until Mark started tugging frantically on my skirt. Noticed clear evidence that he was v keen to get on with it, and was only trying to speed up process of undressing, and somehow, next thing I knew, Mark was blinking down at me in astonishment, and realized that had managed to make own clothes disappear (sort of thing that could happen to anyone). Didn’t much matter, except for mystery of vanishing skirt, which was one of favorites. Mark too distracted by luscious nakedness of self to be bothered and attributed it to self’s uncontrollable desire. 

“You naughty, naughty little witch,” he growled with his lips against my throat, and think that was the moment it all went completely mad. Got all hot and bothered, rolling around in v intense lip-wrestling match, and suddenly felt surge of sexually-charged energy in manner of goddess. One moment had legs wrapped around Mark’s waist; then heard him exclaiming, “Bridget, what the--” and the next moment he was lying on the floor in a tangle of bedsheets. Only explanation is that in throws of passion, managed to accidentally send Mark flying and toss him out of bed. (V useful trick, actually, for arguments, but unfortunate moment to discover that have power to kick husband out of bed when do not actually want to kick him out of bed.) 

“Shit!” I cried. “Mark! Are you okay? I’m so sorry!” 

“I appear to be uninjured,” he assured me, wincing as he extracted himself from beneath the duvet and picked himself up off the floor. “But Bridget, you might consider working on, uh, inner poise in the bedroom.” 

Am complete idiot! Fortunately, Mark found the entire thing amusing and put it down to my tendency to be, in his own words, bizarre, but really have no choice now but to tell him the truth, in case it happens again, because don’t want Mark thinking am secretly pervert with all manner of unspeakable sex fetishes. 

8.32 PM

Right, going to just confess everything when he comes round later, maybe after sex (though on second thought, might seem like am using sex to bewitch him into shag-induced state of affection. Would make more sense if his senses were fully intact instead of enchanting him in manner of sex goddess or, you know, witch). 

8.35 PM

But how do I tell him! How! How! I mean, how often does a man come home to this? ‘Darling, so glad you’re home! You must be exhausted. Let me get you a cup of tea, and oh, by the by, did I ever tell you I’m a witch? Right, I’ll put the kettle on then, shall I?’ No, can’t spring it on him like that. He’d have a coronary, or think maybe Mum dropped me on my head as an infant (not entirely beyond the bounds of possibility). 

8.40 PM

Ooo! I know! Will ring Shazzer! Of course! Outside of parents, have only ever told urban family about being a witch, but have no clear recollection of how or when. Suspect alcohol was involved though. 

8.50 PM

Shaz absolutely no help. What is point of best friends, really, if cannot magically wipe away your problems in manner of fairy godmother or Mary Poppins or similar? 

“Bridge, are you fucking mad? You can’t tell him. You need to maintain balance of power, quite literally in this case. Every woman needs a secret weapon. Don’t relinquish that.” 

“But Shaz,” I protested in small sheep’s voice, “don’t I owe it to Mark to be completely honest with him?” 

“Absolutely fucking not! Nobody tells their partner everything, you ninny. Everyone has secrets, even Mr Bloody Perfect Pants Mark Darcy. Don’t tell him, and then when you’re married and he fucks up, which he inevitably will, as you well know, you can make a voodoo doll of him and stick pins in his genitals.” Know Shaz is right, in a way; it has been proven by surveys that men are entirely incapable of maintaining productive adult relationships because have genetically evolved into power-hungry animals who feed off patriarchal system, but actually feel deep down that mark is exception as has proven himself more than capable of being responsible adult and not commitment-phobic fuckwit. 

“Shaz,” I said slowly, “you don’t really think Mark will be a fuckwit husband, do you? And surely you don’t want him to be?” Would be terrible betrayal of friendship to self if Shaz is secretly hoping Mark will turn out not to be suitable husband material just to prop up statistics which, after all, are just numbers and really do not take into account that everyone is different. 

“No,” Shazzer said finally. “But Bridge, if you look at the statistics--” 

“Shaz,” I interrupted, “you’re not helping!” 

“Fine,” she snapped. “but don’t tell him. Men like Mark can’t be trusted to understand anything that isn’t cold, hard fact.” Suppose Shaz does have a point, but still feels v dishonest not to tell Mark the truth. 

9.13 PM

Ha! Am triumphant woman of wisdom! Rang Jude for second opinion, and she agrees with me. Tralalala. 

“Bridge, the thing is, honesty is really, really, really important in healthy relationships, and considering you and Mark already have a history of communication problems, I think it’s best to move forward with, well, transparency.” 

“But Jude, what if he chucks me?” I squeaked in small voice in manner of frightened mouse. 

“Then he doesn’t deserve you,” Jude replied with conviction. She couldn’t be serious. Mark Darcy, smart, sexy, sophisticated, owns wedding-cake shaped house the size of small private island, top human rights barrister and one of England’s great legal brains doesn’t deserve me? 

“I know what you’re thinking, honey,” said Jude, “and if Mark really does love you just as you are, this will prove it.” Right. Of course. Am strong, confident, woman of substance. Am just going to stand firm and tell Mark everything. 

9.17 PM

Really don’t want Mark to chuck me though. Really, really love Mark. 

9.30 PM

Rang Tom. Seems only fair, as have consulted Jude and Shaz, to give tom a vote too. 

“Bridge, darling, don’t worry. You know Mark loves you; he’s wild about you.” Nearly pointed out that hoity-toity, Mr Perfect Pants isn’t precisely “wild” about anything; then remembered first ever kiss in snow, all wrapped up in his coat and pressed up against his warm, strong chest and insisting nice boys didn’t kiss like that, and when he growled, “Oh, yes they fucking do,” was eternally grateful that he had me pressed up against his chest as self so overcome with lust and shock of seeing Mark Darcy horny for first time that if had been standing, would probably have fainted. Until that moment, had always imagined him apologizing for coming too quickly during sex. 

“Bridge?” was Tom. “Bridge, have you gone into a trance?” 

“You’re right, I suppose,” I conceded. “About Mark, I mean.” 

“Of course I’m right, and you know, whatever happens, you’ll always have me, ducky.” Mmm. Love the lovely friends. Is like always having warm security blanket wrapped around self. 

11.57 PM

Mark came round just after ended conversation with Tom; now lying fast asleep beside me. Hate that Mark can sleep when self unable to do so because of massive weight on conscience. Tried to tell him everything right away, but he looked so tired and rumpled and grumpy (but also v sexy) when he came in that thought had better just leave it for another time. 

“How was the meeting?” I asked, sitting down next to him as he slumped on the sofa. 

“Bloody fucking nightmare,” he yawned, lowering his head into his hands and massaging his temples. “Thank Christ we live in a civilized country. That’s all I’m saying.” Decided was perfect time to put own worries aside and practice being strong, pillar-of-strength wife figure in manner of Maria Von Trapp or similar. 

“Mark, is anything wrong? Can I help?” 

“No, I’m fine,” he said wearily. 

“But you look terrible. What’s wrong?” 

Mark sighed. “Well, let’s see. I’ve just spent nearly 12 hours today endeavoring to work out how to have two very accomplished journalists rescued from prison in an oppressive regime before they’re tortured to death, which isn’t going particularly well at the moment, and in my profession, a bad day at the office generally means someone is probably on the point of being ruthlessly beheaded, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t want to talk right now.” Couldn’t really think of reply to this as did not want to seem insensitive to the plight of suffering journalists defending the right to freedom of the press, but thought Mark might have appreciated that was only trying to be supportive and listen to him talk about his day. Feelings must have shown on my face as when Mark lifted his head, he reached for me, a pleading, penitent look in his brown eyes. 

“Oh, Bridget, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” Sat there uncertainly, chewing my bottom lip as I looked back at him. “Sweetheart, come here,” he murmured, holding out a hand. Relenting, I wrapped my arms around him and began rubbing his shoulders until he pulled me roughly to his chest and kissed me. Felt suddenly warm and comfortable and happy snuggled against him that forgot everything except the feel of his arms around me and the lingering traces of cologne clinging to his shirt. Mmm, love Mark’s smell, like clean cotton and soap and just a hint of something dark and woodsy, like a pine forest with snow on the ground and bunnies hopping through the thicket and…mmm, love Mark Darcy. He suddenly began kissing my neck and trying to yank my blouse over my head at the same time. 

“Mark!” I squeaked. “What--” 

“Don’t say ‘what,’ Bridget. Say ‘pardon’,” he growled in my ear. “And, I’m taking you to bed. That’s what.” Then he scooped me up as if were feather pillow and carried me into the bedroom. Obviously had to put own concerns aside and see to Mark’s needs in manner of ministering angel or wanton sex goddess. Had glorious, spectacular shag (and did not accidentally toss him out of bed), after which Mark rolled over and fell instantly to sleep in manner of tired puppy. Lay awake watching him for a while, wondering how to tell him about being a witch until finally couldn’t stand it any longer. 

“Mark?” 

“Mmmhm?” 

“Mark, are you awake?” 

“No.” 

“But you’re talking.” 

“That’s insufficient evidence.” 

I hesitated; then decided to just get on with it. “Mark, can I, uh, ask you something?” He mumbled something unintelligible that decided to interpret as ‘yes’. “Well, it’s only—I mean well—Mark, you love me, don’t you?” 

Heard Mark sigh from beneath the duvet. “I did, the last time I checked.” 

“And you—you wouldn’t ever stop loving me, for any reason?” 

“That depends. Are you going to stop talking and let me get back to sleep?” Suddenly felt like terrible, heartless person for waking him and was just trying to work out how to apologize when felt him slide his arms around me and pull me to his chest. 

“I’m being silly, aren’t I?” I whispered, snuggling against him. He kissed the top of my head. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It wasn’t important.” Only response was more incoherent mumbling as Mark let his head drop onto my shoulder. “What?” 

“Love you,” he murmured drowsily. “Sleep now.” Right. Just going to tell him tomorrow. 

* * *

#### Friday 4 June

Weight: 9 st 12 (bad, but fat cells weighed down with guilt). 

Cigarettes: 10 (Am saint. Continuing good work). 

Alcohol units: 1 (excellent under circumstances). 

Fiancés: inconclusive (v.v bad). 

Magic spells performed inadvertently: 1 (horror!). 

Magic spells reversed: 0 (entire life spiraling out of control). 

House pets: 1 (entirely unintentional. Must resolve re: magical disaster). 

Minutes spent panicking: 1000 (bad). 

Number of times imagined life in prison: 1500 (really must get grip on self). 

5.00 PM

Mark coming round in a bit; going to make romantic, candlelit dinner that will not turn blue, and have wine and soft music and tell him everything when he’s feeling relaxed and well-fed. Am extraordinary conflict resolver/domestic goddess. Tralalala! 

6.02 PM

Hurrah! Have just had most unbelievable luck! God/Jesus/Buddha/divine power/wine goddess obvs smiling down on self in manner of beneficent angel of mercy. Was just cleaning flat (e.g. shoving mess under bed) and decided should attempt to organize bookcase into orderly mini-library as Mark hates it when shelves look like mad toddler-monkey type creature used them as rock-climbing wall or similar. Shifted aside Mars and Venus collection and discovered brilliant magical self-help book that completely forgot about: Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to Do with Them Now You’ve Wised up. Of course! Have found answer to problem! Can now not only convince logical, practical, perfect pants fiancé that am a witch, but can also learn how to channel magical abilities for practical purposes and show Mark that would be v convenient to marry a witch. Am brilliant, resourceful, forward-thinking genius! 

8.15 PM

Shit! Shit! Oh my bloody God and fuck! Am most unbelievably stupid, hopeless individual on entire planet. Have just made own fiancé disappear! 

8.21 PM

Right. Damage control. On one hand, have calmly and logically assessed situation and determined that Mark not irrevocably invisible or vanished into thin air (v.g. Must focus on positive). On other hand, Mark is no longer, well, Mark. He came round earlier as usual, looking v tired and grumpy again (which, if this is becoming his normal look, his current state is actually an improvement, but am getting ahead of self). Tried to concentrate on being gentle, ministering angel as I removed his jacket and gave him a hug. 

“Tiring day?” I asked, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He nodded, dropping onto the sofa and resting his head on his hand. “Can I get you anything?” 

“A drink,” he said shortly. Felt relieved to have something useful to do as needed time to gather courage. 

“Um, right. Be right back,” I chirped. Immediately scurried into the kitchen and rummaged through cupboards for clean wine glass. Had just poured him lovely full glass of red and taken it to him when began to lose control of everything, including wine glass, which slipped from my hand and splashed all over carpet. 

“Fuck!” I exclaimed, at which Mark lifted his head from the book he’d been examining, a very familiar crease between his brows. 

“Bridget,” he said, holding up the copy of Powers You Never Knew You Had that had accidentally left on coffee table, “would you possibly be able to explain this?” 

“You—weren’t supposed to see that,” I mumbled, blushing. 

With a heavy sigh in manner of tortured martyr or similar, Mark raised his eyes to the heavens. “I surmised as much, but as I have in fact seen it, there’s no getting round it now.” 

“It’s, um, a self-help book,” I squeaked. 

Mark frowned, closed the book, studied its cover, and turned his attention back to me. “Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to Do with Them Now You’ve Wised Up,” he read out slowly. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in me asking you why, precisely, you’re consulting a manual on what appears to be witchcraft? Or is this another of Sharon’s radical feminist attempts to tear down the patriarchy?” 

  


Suddenly had overwhelming desire to chuck the book at his head and knock some sense into his annoyingly pragmatic and unimaginative brain. “Mark, isn’t it obvious?” 

“Not to me, apparently,” he replied calmly. “Would you care to enlighten me?” Had expected, of course, that Mark would approach situation with logical barrister brain, so have only self to blame for not thinking up strong case with sound evidence to prove point. 

“Mark,” I said slowly, “haven’t you ever, you know, wondered about…certain things?” 

“What things, precisely?” he prompted patiently. 

“Well, the fact that I can wake you with the power of my mind, or make completely normal, edible food change color at random, or perform miracles involving essential oil-burners taking in milk?” 

“Bridget, what, exactly, are you trying to tell me?” 

“Mark Darcy, you bloody idiot, I’m a witch!” I shrieked, my patience having reached its limit. Mark just stared fixedly at me as if my words had turned him to stone (though perhaps shouldn’t think that as still not entirely sure can trust self’s thought vibes). 

Finally, his expression softened into something resembling sympathy. “Bridget,” he murmured, “don’t be ridiculous. Is this what you were going on about last night?” I nodded. “Sweetheart, I know you can be a bit, well, bizarre, in an endearing way, of course, and you do have a penchant for attracting freak accidents with alarming frequency, but you don’t believe this nonsense, surely?” 

Angry tears sprang to my eyes, and I glared at him. “Oh, so now you think I’m ridiculous and nonsensical? And being a witch is the same as being some sort of freak? Is that it? Well, let me tell you something, mark Darcy, you don’t know the first thing about me, if that’s what you really think!” 

Mark’s jaw tensed. “Bridget, now you are being ridiculous. Why is it that I can’t ever speak without you misinterpreting every word I say, and why do you always leap to the most erroneous conclusions and accusations? All I said--” 

“I know precisely what you said!” I exclaimed, jabbing a finger at him. “You’re so practical and logical that you can’t fathom the possibility of anything potentially out of the ordinary—anything that exists outside the realm of reason! You dismiss absolutely everything that you can’t make sense of, even if it’s right under your nose, and you just wait! One of these days--” I broke off suddenly as the room filled with a weird, blue-white light, and when I blinked to clear my vision, Mark had disappeared!

“No,” I whispered. “Mark?” No answer, obvs. “Shit,” I muttered, my eyes wandering frantically around the room until I noticed two things v odd and out-of-place that explained what had just happened. The first was Mark’s clothes, in a very un-Mark-like heap on sofa where he’d sat just a moment ago. Felt hysterical laughter bubble up in my throat and was temporarily convinced that Mark would reappear, wearing precisely nothing, dismayed at the state of untidiness in which his sudden vanishing had left his v smart and expensive clothes. Pulled self together, though, as still needed to face obvious fact that did not know what had happened to him. Didn’t have to look far, apparently, for second v odd and out-of-place thing. On the floor at my feet, large eyes fixed on me, nose twitching in what was clearly a disgruntled way, was a brown and white rabbit. 

“Double shit,” I whispered. Somehow, in fit of uncontrollable anger, had managed to turn own fiancé into a bunny! Suppose should be grateful didn’t turn him into a frog, but have more important matters to attend to at the moment, like turning bunny Mark back into handsome-but likely thoroughly pissed-off fiancé Mark. 

11.30 PM

Mark still in bunny form. After initial shock, decided best way to seize control of situation was to act normally, as if people regularly lose their tempers and turn their significant others into small furry animals. I mean, sort of thing that could happen to anyone. When felt reasonably calm, gathered up Mark’s clothes and carried them into the bedroom, draping them v neatly on a chair. No one can say I don’t keep a cool head in a crisis as surely wouldn’t think to tidy Mark’s things if were in a state of panic. V proud of self for maintaining composure in face of adversity. Then returned to bunny Mark and crouched down to examine him more closely. Couldn’t help thinking that, despite fact that obvs prefer Mark in human form, he really looked v cute. 

“Mark?” I whispered, reaching out to stroke his ears (mmm, v soft). He didn’t speak, obvs, but twitched his nose by way of response. “Mark, it’s going to be okay,” I said in what I hoped passed for soothing, reassuring voice. His nose twitched again, and he blinked up at me with big, bewildered, brown bunny eyes. Suddenly wondered if perhaps he hadn’t realized what had happened and didn’t know how best to explain, so scooped him up and carried him into the bedroom, plunking him down in front of the mirror. He scrutinized his reflection for several moments, and when his eyes widened in comprehension, watched in horror and guilt as his entire body began to quiver. 

“It’s okay, Mark,” I said again, stroking his ears while he continued to twitch his nose irritably in grumpy bunny fashion. Feeling v guilty about everything, but suppose Mark will have no choice now but to believe me about being a witch. Ha! 

11.45 PM

In bed. Bunny Mark fast asleep on pillow. Is really v lovely and soft, unlike human Mark who always acts like he has giant gherkin shoved up his backside. (But really do miss Mark as cannot snog bunny. Would be v strange.) 

Shit! Have just realized do not have carrots in flat; will have to go to shops in morning. 

* * *

#### Saturday 5 June

Weight: 8 st (because bottom dropped out of stomach). 

Cigarettes: 26 (horrifying downward spiral, but makes no difference now as will probably die alone as tragic barren spinster). 

Alcohol units: 3 (v.g. considering in crisis) 

Fiancés: 0 (Tragic loss of control over life).

Number of times thought of ringing Mark: 56 (obsessive). 

Minutes spent imagining apology to Mark: 900 (v.g concerted effort to reestablish relationship). 

Number of times practiced apology to Mark: 72 (Still needs work). 

7.00 AM

Bunny Mark awake, staring at me in v grumpy way like Mr Darcy (if Mr Darcy were a bunny, obvs). Suppose should see about getting him breakfast. 

7.18 AM

Hurrah! Found carrots. Just lay in bed with Mark for a while, stroking his ears while he munched grumpily away. Hmm, considering just leaving him like this for a bit. Is lovely having bunny to cuddle up with, and think pets actually superior to boyfriends as always v cute and cuddly and never lose their temper over little insignificant things like turning them into bunny in first place. 

8.15 AM

Forced to reexamine previous statement re: pets being v lovely and friendly, because went to scoop up bunny Mark for more cuddles, and he just hopped away in v indignant manner; he’s currently hiding under the bed and refusing to come out. Fine, see if I care. 

10.00 AM

Oh God! Have just rifled through Powers You Never Knew You Had, but nothing about human-to-animal transformation and how to reverse it. Odd; surely cannot be the first witch to accidentally turn her fiancé into a bunny (though research suggests otherwise). 

11.00 AM

Just rang Shaz, whose suggestion, not surprisingly, was to leave Mark as is to punish him for being narrow-minded toad. Couldn’t help agreeing while also pointing out that Mark is a bunny, not a toad. 

“Just fucking leave him, Bridget,” growled Shaz. “Serves him fucking right.” 

“I can’t!” I wailed. “He can’t just stay this way indefinitely! What if he’s got court on Monday or something?” (Suddenly had mad but amusing vision of bunny Mark hopping around courtroom in v purposeful, authoritative way, waving a carrot for emphasis while judge looked on bemusedly.) Oh God! Cannot leave Mark like this! Someone’s bound to notice he’s missing, and then self will be under suspicion as last person to see Mark, and will be arrested and questioned and have no legal defense as Mark always go-to person for all of self’s legal problems, and he is currently huddled under bed with pile of carrots. V undignified barrister behavior, in my opinion. 

“Fine,” snapped Shazzer. “But none of this would have fucking happened in the first place if you’d kept fucking silent about being a fucking witch!” (Hmph! Friends are supposed to make self feel better, not worse, for making horrible tragic mess of life. Never, ever speaking to Shaz again.) Ooo! Telephone! Maybe Shazzer ringing back with better advice. 

11.45 AM

Turned out to be Jude, who wanted details on outcome of last night’s conversation with Mark. Naturally poured out entire story between sobs. 

“Bridge, it’s okay,” said Jude in v soothing voice as if talking to dying person or similar. 

“It’s not!” I cried. “It’s a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions!” 

“No, it isn’t,” Jude insisted. “Look at the situation logically. You said yourself that Mark never believes anything unless you shove the proof of it right under his nose, so maybe this is the best thing to happen to him. I mean, he can’t very well deny the truth if you can just turn him into a rabbit any time you feel like it.” 

“But Jude,” I protested, “I didn’t feel like it! I don’t even know how he got like this in the first place!” 

“True, but Mark doesn’t know that.” 

“That would be a good point,” I said, “except that I can’t work out how to turn him back.” 

“Hmm.” Line went silent as Jude considered my dilemma. “Bridge,” she said finally, “have you considered—I don’t know—just using positive thought vibes?” 

“Jude, I’m not sure--” I began. 

“No, just listen. I mean, maybe you don’t know what you did, but obviously you did something; you were channeling some kind of inner power, except you didn’t realize it, and you haven’t got a wand or anything to channel your magic through, so maybe it’s just a question of focus.” Aha! Should have thought of that! Perfectly understandable that this didn’t occur to me though, as entire brain, including portion devoted to generating positive thought vibes, has been paralyzed by panic. Right. Going to try now! 

12.02 PM

Nothing. Retrieved bunny Mark from beneath bed where he was still lurking and concentrated v hard on using positive thought vibes to turn him back into himself. Nothing happened, but think his fur might have stood on end a bit. Was staring v intensely at him while concentrating though, so perhaps he felt threatened or something. Hmm, think will eat chocolate, for energy. Maybe you can’t perform magic on an empty stomach. 

12.06 PM

Chocolate v invigorating. Jude is right, of course. It’s just a question of focus and inner poise and—ooo goody, telephone! 

12.25 PM

Was Tom, also calling to find out about how everything went last night re: telling Mark I’m a witch. Told him whole story about accidentally turning Mark into a bunny and having no clue how to turn him back, at which he went v silent. 

“Tom,” I said in bleating sheep voice, “I’m hopeless!” 

“You’re not, honey,” Tom replied in same soothing voice as Jude. “You’re just not concentrating hard enough.” 

“But what am I going to do!” I wailed so that bunny Mark’s fur stood on end again. 

“You’re going to have a drink,” said tom in v authoritative voice as if commanding troops in battle or similar. “Then have another go at it. You need alcohol, Bridge.” Yes. Of course. Wonder why didn’t think of that before. Love Tom. 

1.15 PM

Had lovely drinky and cigarette to calm nerves and sat on sofa stroking bunny Mark’s ears. He kept shooting me v disapproving Markish looks with his big brown bunny eyes, but don’t care. Desperate times, and anyway is afternoon so v socially acceptable to have drink. Right, going to try again. 

2.05 PM

Still nothing. Am completely fucked! Everyone’s going to believe I’ve done away with Mark! Am going to go to prison for life! Suppose Thailand imprisonment somewhat fortuitous as now have first-hand experience of inmate life and will be better able to cope. It’s all about Zen and flow and positive thought vibes, and channeling your inner goddess. 

2.30 PM

Maybe all not lost after all. Was just sitting contemplating life in prison and wondering how was going to tell the Darcys what had done to their first-born son, and just burst into hysterical tears. Then suddenly felt warm, furry weight on lap and realized bunny Mark had left his place on the sofa and hopped over to me. Love Mark. Even when I’m hopeless and he’s v angry with me (quite rightly, in this instance) he knows I’m just a trouble magnet and don’t ever mean to get myself into these messes. He looked up at me with v comprehending expression in his eyes, like he knew none of this was my fault. 

“I’m s-s-so sorry, Mark,” I whispered, stroking him with one hand and brushing away tears with the other. “I d-d-didn’t mean it. I’m going to bring you back. I promise.” He kept staring up at me, and one of his ears twitched, as if he’d understood every word. Feel sudden surge of magical energy now in manner of Dorothy in ruby slippers or similar. Will just have another go. 

11.00 PM

Am world’s most hopeless person! Wish could just make self disappear as am absolute waste of space and no good to anyone. Decided after empowering snuggle from bunny Mark that was no harm in trying again to turn him back into himself. Then thought would be more likely to produce strong magical vibes in state of Zen-like calm, so scooped up bunny Mark, carried him into the bedroom, and deposited him in center of my bed. His nose twitched as he looked up at me with big, soulful brown eyes in manner of fluffy animal like, well, bunny. Turned on soft, classical music, lit candles, and sat self down on bed beside Mark. Closed my eyes and concentrated v hard on positive thought vibes to turn Mark back into himself. Seemed at first like nothing would happen, and then saw same flash of blue-white light. Opened eyes and there was Mark, whole and handsome and fur-free (not to mention gloriously naked), and sat still for a moment, unable to keep self from staring at him as if had never seen naked man in self’s bed before. Prepared to launch self at him in desperate joy as if had been separated for centuries, but then noticed that he was lying v still. Thought for one horrible, terrifying moment that had killed own fiancé and started panicking again about life in prison, possible hanging ETC., until realized in wave of overpowering relief that he was breathing. Must have sensed me staring at him, because after several seconds, he began to stir and slowly opened his eyes. He blinked up at me; then pulled himself into a sitting position, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

“For Heaven’s sake, Bridget, how many times do I have to tell you? Stop bloody staring at me when I’m asleep.” With a choked sob, I flung myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck. 

“You’re all right!” I sniffled into his chest, failing to notice at first that he seemed v unaware of what had happened. 

“Of course I’m all right,” he grumbled, now raking his fingers through his hair, which I couldn’t help noticing even under circumstances looked adorably rumpled. “Why wouldn’t I be? What,” he paused, massaging his temples, “what happened? What’s going on?” Wondered if bunny transformation was like having split personality and Mark had no memory of anything that had occurred during last 24 hours. 

“Mark,” I said gently, “what do you think happened?” 

He rubbed his forehead, thinking. “Well, given all the evidence I currently have at my disposal,” he said, taking in the rumpled sheets and his own state of undress, “I can only assume that we had spectacular, mind-altering sex, and as a result, I’ve just awakened from a state of what I suppose one might describe as a shag-induced coma.” 

“Do you, um, remember anything?” I asked. 

Mark arched a brow at me. “Do I want to? Britain, being a civilized country, does have laws, you know.” 

Took deep, calming breath to steady my nerves. “Mark, I’m serious.” 

He rubbed his forehead again, apparently in deep concentration. “Bridget,” he said finally, looking back at me with the merest flicker of unease in his eyes. “What’s going on? Something feels a bit. . . out of the ordinary.” 

Smiled weakly at his observation. “Well, that’s one way of putting it. Can we, um, talk about the argument we had?” 

Mark frowned. “You mean the one regarding your addition of manuals on magic to your self-help literature library?” 

I nodded. “The thing is, Mark, in the middle of the argument, you sort of—I’m not sure how to put this, really.” As I sat twisting my hands in my lap, trying desperately to think of a way to tell Mark that he had, in fact, been temporarily turned into a rabbit, I noticed a few strands of fur on the pillow, precisely in the spot where bunny Mark had been resting. Took another deep breath, and then the whole story spilled out incoherently, words tumbling from my mouth like marbles scattering in multiple directions. 

“Bridget, you can’t be serious.” Mark stared at me, brows raised. 

“Mark, look!” Hands shaking slightly, I pointed again to the fur on the sheets. Mark glanced down as well, and in typical Mark Darcy fashion, he struggled to maintain outward composure while inside his head I knew all sorts of panicked thoughts were screaming at him. I heard his sharp intake of breath; saw his eyes widen in shock and confusion; saw his jaw tense and his knuckles whiten as he clenched his fists. Continued to watch him, hands pressed together; wanted terribly to fling my arms around him and tell him everything would be okay, but afraid to touch him in case of duplicating spell or giving him anxiety attack. He closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands to give himself time to think. Finally, he looked back at me, and I saw fear and confusion and a hint of mistrust flickering in his eyes and hated self for being the cause of that look. 

“Bridget,” he said carefully, endeavoring to maintain his usual Markish solemnity, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re going on about, but I’d very much appreciate it if you’d come to the point, preferably sooner rather than later.” 

I swallowed and stared down at my hands, still clenched in my lap, and then realized that had no reason not to meet Mark’s eyes like strong, confident, woman of substance in control of crisis. “Mark, I’m sorry. It just—it was an accident. Last night, I was trying to explain everything to you, and you weren’t listening and, I just…” I shrugged, waving my hand to punctuate the unfinished sentence. 

Mark continued to stare at me, looking, if possible, even more perplexed. His gaze fell on my open copy of Powers You Never Knew you Had, and he closed his eyes, probably praying for strength before speaking. “Bridget, you can’t--” He gulped, took a deep breath, and tried again. “you can’t possibly be serious.” 

I glared at him. “Why not?” 

“Because,” he persisted in persuasive barrister tone, “it’s not—it couldn’t be. It’s utterly impossible.” Continuing to clutch at some straw of normality, Mark stood and crossed the room, gathering up his clothes and beginning to dress. 

“You know,” I said, “for a man who prides himself on looking at the world logically, you’re doing a rather shitty job ignoring the evidence.” 

“Well,” he said, seeming to relent, “I can’t deny that your trouble magnetism does tend to defy explanation—and the laws of physics—which leaves me with one question, if any of this is true. Who else knows?” 

“My parents know, obviously,” I said. “Tom and Jude and Shaz--” 

“In short,” interrupted Mark, “everyone important to you, with the clear exception of myself.”

Managed with difficulty not to roll my eyes and responded v quietly and calmly. “Mark, I tried to tell you. Maybe I should have told you sooner, but would it seriously have made any difference when I told you? Would you have believed me? Do you even believe me now?” 

“I don’t know what to believe. I can’t think clearly.” At a loss, he turned away from me. Realized as I watched him gathering up his suit jacket and briefcase, that I had, once again, managed to utterly fuck things up with Mark Darcy. No wonder have fears of dying alone and being eaten by Alsatians. 

“Mark, wait! Can’t you—can’t we just--” 

He turned to face me, the expression in his dark eyes so tired and confused and sad that felt own eyes filling with tears. “I need some time to think,” he said quietly, moving to the door. 

“But what’s—what’s going to happen… to us?” 

Mark sighed. “I don’t know, Bridget. I just don’t know.” Now he’s gone, and I’m alone and wishing I knew a good vanishing spell to use on self. 

* * *

#### Sunday 6 June

Weight: Do not care! Feel feather-light and free in manner of spirit or cloud or similar. 

Cigarettes: 3 (virtuous, saint-style person). 

Alcohol units: 3 (celebratory). 

Fiancés: 1 (Yes! Yes! Tralalala!). 

Shags: 2 (v.v.v.g). 

9.00 AM

Completely exhausted. Stayed awake all night hoping Mark would ring. Am certain he’s going to chuck me. 

11.00 AM

Oh God! I’m so lonely. Have no one to love and am going to die alone and—ooo, telephone! 

11.30 AM

Was Mark. 

“Bridget?” Felt terrible stab of guilt as he sounded v exhausted as if hadn’t slept at all last night either. 

“Mark?” 

“Yes, um, would it be all right if I come round? We need to talk, and I’d prefer to do it in person.” 

Felt tiny seed of something like hope sprouting to life inside self; surely if Mark wanted to chuck me, he’d want to spare himself the trouble of coming round. On other hand, Mark is a gentleman, and gentlemen don’t shirk unpleasant responsibilities but look them bravely in the face. Right, so, probably he’s going to chuck me, but need to pull self together and be calm, assured, woman of substance. “If you can keep your head when all about you--” 

“So I can be there in about 30 minutes, if that’s all right.” 

“Are losing theirs and blaming it on you--” 

“Bridget?” 

“If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you--” 

“Bridget?” 

“but make allowance for--” 

“Bridget! Did you hear me?” 

“Yup, yup. Sorry, what?” Mark sighed; could actually hear him rolling his eyes. “You want to come round?” I squeaked. “Now?” 

“If it’s not too inconvenient,” he said v formally as if arranging lunch to discuss executing will of dying person. 

“Even though I shouted at you and turned you into a bunny?” 

“Yes, well, the thing is—for Heaven’s sake, Bridget, I’m not doing this over the phone.” 

“Fine, come round then,” I said, trying to sigh in v busy and important way as if entire thing were huge inconvenience. Hmm, what to say to him though? Am always terrible about making speeches and apologies after having a row with Mark because usually he just gives me gooey look in manner of kicked puppy and we have sex. Perhaps this is the root of our problems as replacing productive, meaningful conversations with shagging might not be best form of conflict resolution. Still, always seems to work in heat of moment. Ooo, doorbell! 

Midnight, Mark’s House

Have no words to describe sensation of utter relief and shag-drunken bliss. Entire day still feels like dream. 

Mark showed up looking completely knackered. Even standing feet away from him could smell his fresh, clean scent, like he’d just showered, but his hair was all adorably sticky-uppy as if he’d been running his fingers through it and pacing his room in v agitated Mr Darcy manner. For several minutes, we just stared at each other; Mark opened his mouth to speak, closed it, frowned, and raked his fingers through his hair as he began to pace. Felt suddenly as if were in court, awaiting sentence. Expected at any moment Mark would turn to address the room: ‘My Lord, gentlemen and ladies of the jury, you have heard the evidence presented here today, and it seems clear, under the just laws of this country, that there can be only one verdict delivered in this courtroom and that there is no more fitting judgement than to pronounce a sentence of life-long barren spinsterhood.’ 

“Bridget?” Realized Mark was speaking—to me, obvs, not imaginary jury determining fate of self’s romantic future. 

“Yes?” 

“Bridget, I--” He paused, cleared his throat, then continued. “I’ve had a bit of time to think about, well, everything and--” 

“Mark, wait!” Suddenly knew with sinking feeling in stomach what he was going to say, and couldn’t bear to have the whole thing drawn out with long pompous speech. Much better to have it over quickly, like v bad sex, or talking to my mother. Mark paused in his pacing and shot me a questioning look. “Mark, listen, I’m really, really sorry—about everything and--” and I was crying, trying to make my apology heard between sniffles and hiccups. “I never meant for any of this to h-happen, and I know everything between us is over, and I don’t blame you. If I hadn’t said anything, we might have just gone on as we are, but I was so s-s-stupid.” The whole time, Mark just stood there, quietly watching me dissolve into a puddle; part of me wanted to fling myself into his arms, and part of me wanted to slap him for not rushing forward and scooping me up in comforting embrace the way he always does. “I know I’ve spoiled everything,” I sniffed. “And I know you still don’t believe me.” 

“Well,” Mark said gently, “the thing is, Bridget, I’m still having a bit of difficulty getting my head round the fact that you somehow managed to, you know…” 

“Turn you into a bunny?” I whispered, giggling nervously in spite of myself. 

Mark cleared his throat again. “Um, yes, about—about that. I don’t really understand any of this. You have to realize that this is a bit, well, unusual, even for you.” 

“I know,” I said. “That’s precisely why I didn’t tell you.” 

Mark stood still, arms folded as he considered me. “Yes, but what I’m trying to say—what I want you to understand is that, well. . . it doesn’t matter.” 

“Mark, are you insane? Of course it matters! How could you want to stay with me now? What are you thinking?” 

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” replied Mark, a flash of defiance in his eyes as he spoke, “but I’m thinking that I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you.” 

I blinked. “You-you do?” 

Mark gave an exasperated sigh; then crossed the room in three strides and pulled me into his arms. “Of course I do, darling.” 

“R-really?” I hiccupped, burying my head in his chest. 

“Really. I love you. I honestly, truly, perhaps unfathomably love you—blue soup, self-help library, magical thought vibes and all. Before I met you, my life was perfectly organized and utterly unfulfilling; being with you makes my life an adventure. I never know what’s going to happen, but I always want to find out.” Wanted to speak, but choked with sobs so could only tighten hold on him. “I’m sorry for walking out on you the way I did,” he continued, gallantly ignoring the fact that I was ugly-crying into his shirt that was probably the cost of my entire wardrobe. “I was shocked. You can hardly have expected otherwise, and I confess, I was a bit angry.” 

Brushing tears away with my wrists, I gave him a weak smile. “you actually were very cute, as a bunny, I mean.” 

Mark winced. “I wasn’t referring to that, precisely; it was more the fact that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.” 

“I thought it would frighten you,” I confessed. 

“I think I understand that now,” he said, “though I still wish you’d told me sooner.” 

“I didn’t imagine I’d ever need to tell you. I thought I could keep it quiet.” Mark smiled, stroking my cheek. “I really didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did,” I said. 

Chuckling, Mark reached up to cup my face in his hands. “I never know what to expect from you, Bridget Jones.” Stood still for a moment, one brow raised as I considered him; then launched myself at him, flinging my arms around his neck as I kissed him hard on the mouth. When we finally drew back, he continued to cradle me against him, and I rested my head against his chest, loving his warm, solid, dependable presence. 

“I love you, mark Darcy,” I whispered. “And I’m really, really sorry, about everything.” 

“I know,” he murmured. “I’m sorry too.” 

“No,” I insisted. “It wasn’t really your fault; I mean, how many men expect to find out they’re marrying a witch?” 

“Ah, yes.” Mark smiled again. “Since you mentioned that, I’ve actually got a trick or two up my sleeve as well.” 

I frowned. “Mark, what do you mean?” 

“Here, let me show you.” Still smiling, he flicked his wrist and withdrew a small object from within his shirtsleeve. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you,” he said, dropping to one knee and taking my hand in both of his. As I glanced down, he slid a delicate ring onto my finger; for a moment, could only stare down at the sapphire and diamond setting that winked up at me like a conspirator in Mark’s secret. “If you don’t like it,” he said hesitantly, “you can pick out something different, but I thought this would suit you. It just—it reminded me a bit of your eyes.” 

“Mark, I—it’s—it’s perfect.” 

“And it fits,” he said, giving an approving nod as he studied the ring. “In fact,” he added, flashing me a grin, “I think it might look even better if you were…somewhat less adorned.” He immediately went to work removing all unnecessary items of clothing (i.e. everything I was wearing, obvs) before scooping me up and carrying me into the bedroom. 

Not necessary to record in detail what followed; lay in bed for a while in shag heaven as Mark slept beside me. Couldn’t resist occasionally raising hand to admire ring sparkling on finger like everlasting promise, not that need anything more than Mark’s word to prove his love, obvs. Eventually started to feel v hungry, but felt so warm and comfortable cuddled up to sleeping fiancé. Internal battle over whether or not to go off in search of food was decided when stomach began loudly protesting lack of food. Sex apparently insufficient form of nourishment. Mark stirred just as self’s insides made particularly vocal bid for food. He stretched luxuriantly and sat up, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb as he cradled it in his own. 

“It feels official now, doesn’t it,” he murmured, smiling as he twisted the ring on my finger to admire it. “We should celebrate. I’m taking you out for dinner.” 

Rummaged through wardrobe and found perfect little black cocktail dress to set off ring and had v romantic candlelit dinner; then came back to Mark’s (because really need to get used to sleeping in wedding-cake mansion) and sat in the back garden, holding hands and just enjoying being together. 

“This was so perfect, Mark,” I whispered, leaning into him. “Tonight—everything.” 

“I’d almost call it magical,” he said, giving me a half-teasing, half-searching look. “Bridget?” He cupped my cheek in his hand, turning my face toward his so that our eyes met; I saw the question flickering in his gaze and wrapped my arms around him. Poor Mark—sensible, practical, always-in-control, incapable-of-spontaneity Mark Darcy was afraid—actually afraid I might have bewitched him into falling in love with me. 

“Mark,” I murmured, “if I had the power to make any man fall in love with me, do you honestly think my mum would have kept going on about me never finding a husband?” 

Mark chuckled. “Fair point,” he admitted, stroking my cheek. “It was silly of me to even think—but it doesn’t matter now.” 

“Of course it matters,” I said, hugging him tightly. “You’ve learned something about me that might have, and probably has changed the way you look at our relationship. I’m actually surprised, to be honest, that you came round as quickly as you did.” 

“The truth is, you’re still the same person you always were; it’s just that there’s, well, a bit more to you than I thought, which I ought to have suspected, really,” he added, kissing me. 

“But mark,” I insisted, “really, I can’t just manipulate people’s emotions on a whim, and even if I could, I wouldn’t. that’s not fair; that’s not love. I love you more than anyone in the world, but that doesn’t give me any power over your feelings. If you love another person, really love them, you love freely and openly and honestly.” 

Mark turned away for a moment, considering my words; when he faced me again, tears glistened in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Bridget,” he whispered, pulling me close again. “It was wrong of me to think such a thing. You’re right; of course you’re right.” Tilted my head up to look at him again—at his soft, brown eyes full of warmth and devotion. Took his face in my hands and traced the curve of his smile, and remembered the first time I’d kissed that mouth, how I’d felt all warm and sweet inside as if full of marshmallows even though was snowing. Had hardly noticed cold, really, all wrapped up in Mark’s coat and warm strong arms. As our mouths came together now, I closed my eyes, lost in the memory of that first glorious kiss until Mark paused, one hand wound in my hair, and drew back in mild confusion. 

“Bridget, you’ve got something in your hair.” 

I frowned. “So have you,” I said, suddenly noticing bluish white flecks of something against the darkness of his hair. Reached up to brush them away and found myself shivering as Mark did the same to me, not at his touch, but because the air around us had suddenly gone oddly chilly. 

Mark stared for a moment, brows drawn together. “Good God, it isn’t—it can’t be.” 

“What!” I demanded. “What is it?” 

“Bridget, love,” he said gently, torn between astonishment and amusement, “I think you’ve, uh, made it snow.” 

“But I can’t have!” I exclaimed, glancing around in panic and noticing back garden dusted with same blueish-white flakes. “It’s—I mean, it’s June, for fuck’s sake!” 

“I’m afraid you have, darling,” said Mark. “I recognize your style. Look. Its—well, it’s, um, it’s blue.” 

“Shit,” I whispered. “I…didn’t mean to do that.” 

Mark laughed. “I never know what to expect from you, Bridget Jones,” he said again, and carried on kissing me. Mmm. Love Mark. Maybe night turned out rather magical after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title referred to in this fic, Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to Do With Them Once You've Wised Up, appears in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.


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